Nothing Without You
by RiaShelford
Summary: John has left for Afghanistan and Sherlock is lost without him. Feeling love and loss are new emotions and he is barely surviving. Kinda an AU, in which John must return to A after the BBC episodes have taken place, and after SH returns from "the dead". Also *some* Mystrade. WARNINGS: Violence, Character Death, Slash, Drugs, Language
1. Chapter 1

Nothing Without You

The sun was bursting through the blinds and forcing its way into Sherlock's eyes. Brushing the damp curls from his forehead, he opened his lids a millimetre, before snapping them shut again against the persistent glare erupting from the window. Slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust, Sherlock opened his eyes once more, staring at the ceiling so as to avoid direct sunlight. The weight in his hands and feet pinned him down, and any plans he'd had to move were now obliterated.

There was no point in moving, each day was the same as the one before, and nothing changed, other than the passing of the days and nights- which Sherlock had long stopped counting- there was no variation to these long, hot, summer days. It was boring. Being alone was boring. And he was not getting up. The mobile on his bedside table buzzed, dully, against the old wood, and Sherlock stretched out a pale, bony hand to reach it. He had hardly gotten up since that day, let alone eaten, and it was beginning to take its toll on his body. He fumbled to unlock his phone, it felt heavy and foreign in his palm, having not used it since that day.

_Sherlock- please reply and stop all of this. –Lestrade_

Sherlock snorted and threw the phone onto the empty space in the bed next to him. The second it hit the mattress, he snatched it up again and typed quickly:

_I will not stop "all of this". I am not your sniffer dog. –SH_

Although a new case would probably help distract him, Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to be distracted. Surely that wasn't right, or fair. He would sit here and wait. Wait for order to be restored. His phone buzzed again and Sherlock exhaled heavily.

_Lestrade is worried about you- as are we all, brother. –MH_

"Urgh." Sherlock threw the phone across the room and it landed with a resounding thump on the floor.

221B was silent, yet again. Too silent. Sherlock felt himself drift off again. He had slept almost continuously since that day, and it seemed to make him more tired, rather than make him feel rested. I knock at the door tore Sherlock from his daydreams.

"Mail for you, Sherlock! It's under the door!". Mrs Hudson's shrill voice echoed from the landing.

His eyes snapped open and with a sudden spurt of energy, the detective threw his long spindly legs across the bed and strode through the open door, scooping up his phone on the way out. After two steps, he fell, his legs not used to his own weight. Exhaling slowly, he looked up and saw a solitary letter sitting on the door mat. Scrambling to his feet, Sherlock dashed to the door and tore the top of the envelope in two. A small square fell from the ripped envelope and landed on the uncarpeted wood. Even from his height, Sherlock could see it was not a letter. He glared at it, before tossing the envelope over his shoulder and making his way to his armchair. His eyes stung and a red fire burnt beneath the skin on his cheeks. He threw himself into the arm chair and drew his knees up to his chin. How could a brilliant mind like his be so easily fooled? How could a sociopath feel this way? As he sat, his gaze wondered, settling finally on the empty chair opposite him. By now, he should probably have expected that there would be no one sitting there. But no matter how much time passed, the sting wouldn't dull down, and Sherlock could feel himself getting old, waiting.

The phone in his pocket buzzed, against his thigh, and Sherlock slipped a hand into his dressing gown to fish it out.

_Sherlock, it would mean a lot if you could be there. –MH._

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and studied the text again. His eyes darted across the flat and fell on the square of cream coloured paper still on the floor. Forcing himself up out of his seat, he grabbed the note and remains of the envelope from the cold wood and perched on the edge of the acid-stained kitchen table.

_You are invited to celebrate the joining of _

_Mycroft Holmes _

_And_

_Gregory Lestrade _

_On the 12__th__ August 2013_

_Dartmouth House, Mayfair, London_

Sherlock stared at the invitation for a solid five minutes. Of course, now he remembered the engagement. The day before…that day. The date flashed through his mind. He didn't know how much time had passed but he hoped it was 2013 already. His brother had scheduled the wedding to allow time for the return, and the inevitable strenuous settling back into civilian life. If he returned.

His eyes stung, again, violently, as he tried to block out the thoughts. His phone buzzed, and Sherlock picked it up with a groan to read the latest message.

_Sherlock, it's been two months. You still have another 13 to go. Please don't be like this- MH._

Two months?

John had been gone for two months.

He picked up his phone again and began to type:

_I'll be at Diogenes t…_

He stopped. Not yet. He saved the message to send off later. He would survive, for him, but not yet. He held down the power button on his phone and threw it softly onto his armchair.

Then he swept from the room and returned to their room to sleep.

"Not much longer." Sherlock sighed, and shut his eyes once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- A surprise visit

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock- Get up."

Opening his eyes slowly, avoiding the light, as he had been every morning now, Sherlock looked up into the two faces hovering above his bed. He yelped, jumping up against the bed frame and pinning the sheets to his chest to cover his naked body.

"Relax, Sherlock, we've been here for days, anything you try to hide now has already been seen." One of the faces sniggered, through a tight grin he was trying to control.

Sherlock ignored him, focusing instead on the other man, narrowing his eyes, though if he were honest more because he wasn't used to the light yet than in menace.

"Mycroft. How did you get in?". He demanded, though it wasn't really a question. His brother smiled back at him- knowing he wouldn't need to answer. He corrected himself: "Mycroft, when did you get in?"

"You wouldn't answer my calls, or texts. We were worried, so we decided to stay for a while to look after the place". He smiled at his brother and squeezed his fiancée's hand.

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes and let them sweep his bedroom and the parts of 221B visible through the open door. It was…clean. The area by the fireplace was by no means tidy, blankets strewn across the back of the sofa, but the apartment was clean. His chemical table had been tidied and scrubbed, and the laptop had been placed atop the desk. He winced at the thought of anyone else touching it. His eyes fell to the two armchairs across from one another; two pairs of shoes and a pile of clothes were left before his.

"My chair? Why? If you're going to break into my flat at least keep your…_activities _to the bedroom." He spat, now irritated beyond belief.

"Sherlock look- just thank us for cleaning the place, get up, and eat something. It's just not healthy." Greg tried; His voice lower and calmer than the two brothers'.

"Lestrade, as you very well know I have never been a stickler for what imbeciles such as yourself perceive as a **healthy lifestyle."** Sherlock retorted, losing patience with the DI.

He had to admit the place _did_ look much better. Not that he cared. He hadn't cleaned since that day and though he didn't know how long it had been now, it had definitely been over two months. Certainly too long to leave that pig's heart out, anyway. He got up from his bed, sheets still wrapped around him, and stalked past the two of them. He was hit by the thick smell of cigarettes rising from the living room and whipped his head around, the anger boiling up inside and his fingernails digging into his palm- there would be scars.

"MYCROFT! You smoked in here! We don't smoke in 221B! IT'S THE RULES" Sherlock was yelling now, there was no gratitude for anything the two had done left - just anger. They knew the rules as well as he did.

There were certain rules that had been put into place when the _living arrangements _at 221B had changed: The room then left spare would be set aside for guests- which they never had- and Sherlock may not use it for any experiments or cases; The medical cupboard was not for Sherlock's usage, and he was to keep out of it; the channel would not be changed when Doctor Who was on; Sherlock had to help cook and clean at least once a month; and most importantly, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft may smoke anything inside the flat. Simple rules, rules that retained order, rules Sherlock clung onto now more than ever.

Mycroft's eyes burnt into Sherlock's, narrowing slowly.

"**SHERLOCK HE'S NOT HERE.**" Mycroft spat, the words erupting from his mouth. "HE'S NOT GOING TO BE HERE ANYTIME SOON."

The room fell silent.

Mycroft looked at the floor, avoiding the brilliant blue of his brother's eyes which upon Mycroft's words-had suddenly fallen void of any anger, and was replaced, instead by a sadness that Mycroft had only seen three times in his life- before The Fall, on that day, and now. Sherlock was usually so shut off from his own emotions that any time his body caught up with him, it stunned him. It stunned everyone. Sherlock was difficult enough to deal with when he was emotionally distant- when he _felt _when he truly _felt _something he was absolute hell. Lestrade was the first to speak, walking across the bedroom and leaning against the door frame where Sherlock stood. He reached out a hand to Sherlock's shoulder-which Sherlock promptly shifted off- and exhaled heavily.

"Myc didn't mean it, Sherlock, did you Myc?" He sighed, doubtfully.

Both sets of eyes now on Mycroft- he nodded slowly.

"I did mean it, because it's true. It was harsh of me, maybe, but Sherlock really no harsher than you are to your clients, or friends. You can't be rude and arrogant and expect people to treat you any different."

Sherlock flinched at the word _friends-_it meant so much to him. To them. Sherlock didn't think he would ever be capable of sentiment, but something was attached to that word- a memory, an _emotion._ He collected himself, and turned to look Lestrade straight in the eye.

"Thank you for your efforts here, now please, leave." He was direct, but-he thought-not unkind.

Lestrade nodded briefly, and grabbing Mycroft's hand, made his way to the door. Mycroft pulled back a little, waiting in the door way to speak to Sherlock.

"Come back soon, brother. I know you're in there somewhere." He searched Sherlock's eyes, but saw nothing of the cold brilliance he was so famed for; so loved for, if that were possible. Then, shrugging dismissively, he followed his detective out of the door scooping up the clothes on his way.

He was alone again. The smoke still thick in the living room swirled around him, and inhaling deeply, he threw himself onto the sofa. Mycroft was not lying. In fact, initially he had been patient, kind, even. But he didn't want to hear it anymore. The flat had to be preserved the way it was since that day, and the rules remain unbroken. The buzz of his phone in the bedroom interrupted his thoughts and he crossed the room to pick it up.

It was from Lestrade:

_I'll come back in a while- just me. Try and pull yourself together in that time –Lestrade_

Sherlock was glad. Ish. Not that he wanted his life interrupted further, but it seemed he wasn't going to be left alone and he was glad it was not his brother that had been assigned _Operation: Fix Sherlock Holmes. _At least Gregory understood emotions. _Why would he want to marry Mycroft? _Sherlock thought. But then again, similar things had been said about his romantic endeavour. Exhaling, he crawled back into bed, and it was not for another 4 months that Lestrade visited him again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3- Six months gone

Gregory Lestrade didn't knock before entering 221B, and wasted no time in striding straight in. He couldn't deal with Sherlock's drama, and couldn't actually remember why it was _him _that had to go check up on him, and not the older Holmes. They were brothers after all. Still- four months had been too long to leave Sherlock alone, and he did feel guilty for that. As calloused as Sherlock was, he truly loved John- his only real friend- and was no doubt incredibly lonely in the eerily quiet apartment. But it wasn't just Sherlock that was suffering in John's absence. Greg had always confided in the empathetic doctor. Dating a Holmes was hard work- they'd both known that- and now that Greg was _engaged _to one he really did need John to console him. As similar as the Holmes' were, what Greg did sometimes envy John was his boyfriends' underlying vulnerability. Maybe it had something to do with the fragility of John and Sherlock's relationship. And John's life. But Greg just wished he could make Mycroft cry the way John made Sherlock cry. Though Greg and Mycroft had never seen it themselves, John had told him: Sherlock can cry. And he didn't know if Mycroft couldn't, or wouldn't but he had never seen a tear fall from his fiancées eyes.

Greg pushed all the thoughts of his jealousy, anger and sadness to the very back of his mind, and concentrating on the task in hand: getting Sherlock to _move_.

Much to his surprise; Sherlock was no longer in bed. Well. It had been months, and he wasn't sure why, but he half expected him to still be lying entangled in the sheets, in the very same spot they'd left him. Now that thought seemed idiotic; Sherlock hated sleep, and in these six months had slept more than ever before in his life time. He'd probably decided he'd had his fill for the next twenty years and begun to divulge in one of his revolting hobbies again.

But he wasn't doing that either. He was lying on the couch, with a towel slung about his hip bones, which were shockingly prominent: he hadn't been eating. His violin was in his hand and he was plucking at the strings on by one and staring into thin air, thoughtfully letting the notes ring out in the silence. Greg cleared his throat to make his presence known to Sherlock; who was clearly elsewhere in thought.

"Stop standing around and sit, Lestrade."

A little surprised and taken aback at the return of Sherlock's insolent character, he hastily took seat. As repellent as his arrogance was, Greg was secretly glad that Sherlock hadn't suddenly become an emotionally sensitive and caring boyfriend. –_Selfish_- he thought to himself and shook the thought off.

"Lestrade, I have been thinking." Sherlock stated shortly, still staring into space.

"Oh, how surprising, Sherlock." Greg retorted, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was actually very interested in hearing what he had to say

"Yes, quite. Why are marrying my brother?"

Silence.

"Lestrade, I am talking to-"

"Yes, yes, I heard you." Greg butted in, dismissing Sherlock.

"I heard you loud and clear, but I don't particularly think it's any of your business." Greg stated firmly, but he knew he couldn't shake Sherlock's mind from something once it was hooked.

Sherlock smirked.

"My future sister-in-law is every bit my business." He remarked, still grinning at Lestrade.

Lestrade exhaled loudly and stood up. He didn't know why he'd come over now. Sherlock didn't want company, just someone else to torment whilst his usual victim was elsewhere. As he got ready to leave, Sherlock carefully placed his violin onto the coffee table and peeked over the back of the sofa.

"Lestrade, stay for coffee." Sherlock demanded…his grin still audible in the tone of his voice.

"No. Not if you're going to ridicule me." Lestrade sulked. He wasn't going to get an apology so he could at least milk this.

Sherlock snorted and flopped back onto the sofa. Taking this as his clue, Lestrade grabbed the front door, which he had left open, and swung it back to let himself out. But a small voice came from behind the sofa's backrest. It was not the same voice that had been laughing at him, teasing him.

"I'm lonely." The small voice came, stuttering slightly, and shaking on the telling word.

Lestrade never thought he'd hear that word leave the detective's mouth, even if he were _lonely_ why would he ever admit it? There was nothing of that arrogant beauty in his voice now. And strangely enough Greg found himself missing it- and praying Sherlock would fully return soon. Nonetheless; understanding Sherlock's need for comfort, he gently closed the front door again and made his way to the sofa. He dropped his coat over the back of the couch and threw himself down across from the figure huddled in the towel against the opposite armrest. The silence that extended between the two comforted Greg. With Sherlock, he didn't need to say anything. The Holmes' never expected comfort, or love from others. It was probably the most beautiful thing about them. Just sitting here would be enough.

"I wasn't joking, why are you marrying him?" Sherlock tried again in the small voice that scared Lestrade so. It was less threatening, and Sherlock wasn't the first to ask so he didn't begrudge him his natural curiosity.

"I love him, Sherlock. I want to be with Mycroft forever, why wouldn't I want to marry him?" Lestrade said plainly, knowing it didn't entirely answer the question. He took a deep breath, it didn't take a Holmes to realise Sherlock wouldn't buy it, and tried again:

"Look, Sherlock, Mycroft doesn't show love the way I do, or John does." Sherlock winced. "Or even the way _you_ do. I know that. But he asked _me _to marry him. As you well know, for someone like him, -for a _Holmes-_admitting you feel any emotion is difficult enough. Accepting an emotion like love enough to ask someone to _marry_ you is borderline miracle. I can't ask for anything more than that." Greg exhaled, finally, hoping Sherlock understood. The younger Holmes just nodded. His dark curls bouncing in his eye line.

"Also…he's good in bed." Greg said quickly.

Sherlock gagged comically and threw a pillow at Greg, which hit him square in the nose.

The two laughed, for probably the first time since.

Even Greg still flinched at the thought of happiness. He could only imagine the internal pain Sherlock must be enduring.

"It doesn't feel right to laugh." Greg was surprised to hear Sherlock say anything about how he _felt_, but showing his surprise would probably make him close off again, so he just nodded understandingly and tried to think of a way to distract him. He failed.

"Why the sudden interest in love anyway?" Greg asked, casually.

"It's all part of an experiment of course-" He started but the DI cut him off.

"No, Sherlock. Please be honest with me. I am your soon-to-be-sister-in-law after all."

Sherlock smiled appreciatively at Lestrade's transparent attempt to lift the mood. "I want to know if John could. Well. If he could. Love me?" Sherlock said. His hard shell was well and truly cracking before Greg's eyes.

"Sherlock, he loves you more than anything he's ever had and everything he's ever known." Lestrade said bluntly, knowing his tone would instil a little confidence in his soon-to-be little brother.

Sherlock beamed, the sharp bones under the surface scratching at the underneath of his skin, forcing their way out. It was horrifying to watch the severely underweight, broken man forcing a smile. But the sentiment was there- he'd known that. Of course John loved him

Lestrade could tell there was more. It wasn't all Sherlock was asking. It wasn't the real question. And Sherlock was fighting it. More than he'd ever seen Sherlock fight his words. Usually he let his words spill out, regardless of causing offence or hurt.

"Lestrade." Sherlock said, his tone muted.

Lestrade nodded swiftly.

"Would he…_marry me_?"

The bouncing of the bus shook John in his seat. He stared numbly out of the window and dreamt of far off places. Sherlock's face was haunting him. Of everything he'd seen and experienced in his life, nothing was more harrowing then the look on his beautiful boyfriend's face when he told him he had to go. Sherlock struggled with expressing and understanding emotions, but he was not short of them. The confusion had morphed into surprise, and into anger, and finally settled into a heart-wrenching sadness that still tore John up inside whenever he thought about it. And now, that he was surrounded by true horror, he could not concentrate on anything but how scared he felt in that moment. Leaving Sherlock was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do. Not just the thought of- John swallowed hard- never seeing him again, but not being there to look after him worried him sick. Emotionally, Sherlock was hardly over the age of 5. And a vulnerable, vastly intelligent five year old with direct access to any drug or weapon he so desired was surely any parents worst nightmare. He worried that Sherlock wouldn't eat, or sleep, and that Lestrade and Mycroft would get sick of Sherlock's 'drama' and just leave him. Alone in 221B. He knew how that felt.

He was alone here, surrounded by thousands, but so alone. They all were. Next to him sat Helena, a fellow doctor. He had known her from school and a familiar face certainly dulled the sharp pain of loneliness. She liked John, he could tell, all his years with Sherlock had taught him how to deduce behaviours easily- something Sherlock himself struggled with. But there was no time for talking of issues of the heart whilst on deployment. And he certainly wasn't in the mood to explain his relationship with Sherlock. None of the fellow doctors or soldiers knew that John was… that way inclined, and he didn't intend on telling them anytime soon. Especially not Helena.

The bus lurched to stop, and all the dirtied faces snapped to the front of the bus. Yells came from around John, washing over his head.

"_Why have we stopped?" _

"_What's going on?"_

"_Driver, what's wrong?"_

Another pot hole-John assumed-and continued to stare out of the window. But a small, calloused hand grabbed his. He whipped his head to face Helena and saw a look he'd never seen before. She was _terrified_. Even in their first deployment, he had never seen fear in her eyes the way he saw it now. A shaking finger stretched out from her shoulder, and John's eyes followed it to a small, shabby taxi which was parked directly in front of the bus. The pressure from Helena's hand burnt into his and cut off the circulation to his fingers. He focused on that pain and shut his eyes tight. So that hurt too.

The explosion was bright enough to radiate through his shut eyelids, and the sudden force of the bus slamming onto its side pushed the shattered glass and pavement into his shoulder. He felt it crack and warm liquid spilt down his arm.

His life did not flash before his eyes.

There was no slow motion.

He lifted his head from the scorching road to see the remains of the burning bus.

Red.

Blood ran through his trousers where Helena's head lay across him.

Nobody called out.

There was complete silence.

It was never like this. Of everything he'd seen. There had never been silence.

Nobody else. Just him. He didn't need to check pulses. If anyone else was still alive they wouldn't be by the time help arrived.

If it arrived.

He lay there, a disfigured mess amongst destroyed bodies. The entire left side of his body shattered and broken became one with the dirt track that forced its way into his body, the dust stinging as it grazed his flesh. His shoulder unrecognisably mangled, and his head pounding.

Blood pooled in his ears and with each beat of his tired heart his vision grew more blurred, until the world around him was just swirls of red and brown and his swollen insides forced themselves against the little restraint his bones still offered.

Not long now.

Not long until he could rest.

He let go, slowly. Slipping, falling out of consciousness. He could hold on- he knew he could. But it was too hard. Even if he could push through… it wouldn't be the same. This life wasn't worth living.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he let his skull slam hard into the shards beneath him.

And he let everything fall.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- Bad News

"Good Morning, sweetheart." came a soft voice from directly above him as Mycroft opened his eyes.

Mycroft grinned smugly: the fact that he had tamed the bulldog of Scotland Yard and had him completely in his power meant more to him than the thousands that worked under him. Lestrade was kind and attentive (to Mycroft at least), but he Mycroft knew that it was not his gentle nature that had earnt him his reputation in London-and indeed; all of England. Then again the only other people the politician had contact with were a sociopathic detective and an army doctor with a kick for violence. Still, _Greg _was the sweetheart.

"What are you doing up so early?" He replied through a yawn, trying to hide his smile.

He failed. Greg smiled back enthusiastically and leant down from his spot, perched on the edge of the bed, placed an arm either side of Mycroft's head and kissed him on his still slightly parted mouth. He was already dressed in his black shirt, top two buttons undone- showing nowhere near enough of that beautiful chest. His hair was tidy, shoes on, and grey coat in his hand. Mycroft's smile instantly dropped.

"You're leaving early again?" He said quietly, firmly focussing his eyes downward on the circles he was drawing across Greg's arm with his fingertips so as to hide his disappointment.

"Yes, I have to. The attacks in Kabul have caused a lot of friction. Press are all around the Yard." He stopped, and looked thoughtful for a second. "Surely this is more your area?" He added, looking down at Mycroft questioningly.

"Yes, well, I have some private inquisitions to make. And I'll need to be close by to 221B" He said, putting it delicately- for Greg's sake.

"What? Mycroft, I have to go, what do you mean?" the DI said, climbing to his feet and swinging on the coat- but still looking down at his fiancée. His expression was confused, and perhaps a little impatient. The stress was getting to him.

"Greg, sweetie. Sit down." Mycroft instructed, trying to make his direction gentle, but instead it left his lips as an harsh order.

Greg just stared at him. "What? What is it?" He didn't sit down, just froze and searched Mycroft's eyes for some kind of answer. Mycroft had never been careful when delivering bad news. He just came out with things, regardless of the feelings of the people around him: "Greg, your mum died." "Greg, I told your boss you didn't want that promotion" "Greg, someone shot Anderson- but he survived." On this occasion, however, he knew he had to tread around the issue very carefully, it was so close to heart- for all of them.

"The bus, in Kabul, the first one…" He stopped momentarily to gather breath and then spurted out:

"John was on that bus."

Lestrade shook his head-slowly at first, and then more vigorously.

"No, no. No. **NO DAMMIT MYCROFT**." Lestrade paced up and down the bedroom as tears began to form in his eyes. His fists were clenched tightly. Fingernails cutting into his hands so sharply they began to bleed. Mycroft didn't understand why Lestrade thought that would help, but given he understood very little of the inner workings of his non-Holmes friends, he got up swiftly and embraced Greg- stopping him in his path. Greg always did the same when something upset Mycroft- so it seemed appropriate.

He held onto his fiancée pinning both arms to his side and pressing his bare chest onto Greg's. His extra five centimetres height allowed him to inhibit Greg's movements quite easily, even given Lestrade's strength. Or was Greg letting himself be held?

"Have they found…" Greg's voice was muffled and trailed off and hysterical sobs overtook his breathing.

"29 dead, four severely injured." He said, matter-of-factly. "It's expected to be 31 dead by tonight."

"And, John…is he?" Greg said, slowly, pushing away from the embrace to collect himself. Mycroft looked straight into his eyes and held onto both of Greg's wrists. It was difficult to say…

"I…don't know."

Greg's sobs had died down into gentle sniffles, which still pained Mycroft to see. He didn't deserve a man like this- with such emotional depth and strength of character. In an overwhelming burst of desire, he leant down and caught Greg's bottom lip between his- hoping it would count as comfort.

Greg seemed to appreciate the sentiment behind the kiss, and thrust himself into it with such vigour that Mycroft had to take a couple of steps back. He knew the kiss was out of frustration- not love- but still, it was…lovely.

"Stay home…you need time off." Mycroft mumbled against Greg's lips.

Greg simply nodded and let Mycroft push him onto the bed with a soft thump.

Sherlock had known long before he'd gotten the official news. No. That was wrong. You have to wait for facts. Data. DATA.

His mind had been running in circles. He was feeling something odd. And he didn't understand. It was like something in him had changed. How could that be? Nothing had physically happened to him. But he had this odd pain in his chest. He couldn't shift it, and painkillers weren't working. He hated taking them, but the ache was so powerful now that he couldn't even move properly.

He had felt _something. _A twinge, before opening the door to Mycroft- a visit wasn't unusual- but somehow the pain in his chest _stung _in anticipation of what he just _knew_ would be bad news. How could he have known? It was physically impossible.

He reached across the sofa and picked up his revolver which was lying conveniently on the coffee table. He shot at the wall three times-in quick succession-before relapsing into his former position; huddled into a ball on the sofa. The smell of gunpowder in the air was oddly comforting.

It smelt of

"Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled down the stairs. "We need milk."

The door opened and closed and Sherlock could no longer fight back his tears. They washed over him- devouring his soul in all-consuming waves.

John wished he could get up. He hated being the patient, especially when it was his junior staff tending to him.

Life had changed so quickly, he hadn't even had a moment to think back- to reflect. He'd lost his only friend over here. Every time he thought of Helena the lump in his throat doubled in size and he had to clench his eyes to hold back tears. In a strange way- he had loved Helena. God knows he still did.

And now he was lonelier than he could ever remember being. And the ache Sherlock had left in his chest felt more powerful than it ever had. The broken ribs didn't help that, though. The entire left side of his body was shattered. As he'd imagined, the damage to his shoulder was irreparable- he would have a hideous scar forever. He delicately ran his hand over the red-stained bandage which was covering the rugged landscape the shrapnel had left behind. Sherlock hated him scarred, and what had been a small bullet wound was now torn open revealing the tender flesh beneath.

"You shouldn't touch it, you know" came an unfamiliar voice from the bed next to him "it'll get infected."

The voice was almost sneering: as if mocking him.

"Thank you; I'm a doctor, actually." John mumbled, turning away from the man.

He was young, blonde, and not unlike John in stature-but much taller. It was hard to say how tall exactly, but judging by how much of his body was spilling over the sides of the small hospital bed, he must have been at least Mycroft's height. His shirt was pulled down from his shoulders and tied around his waist to allow one of the other doctors to place his arm in a sling. John had to actively prevent him eyes from wandering back to that broad, sun-roasted chest: an expanse of muscle stretched over a terrifyingly imposing bone structure -with collar and hip bones redolent of Sherlock's, but without the emaciated dips in the skin between them which Sherlock so beautifully held. He did not so much as wince as the paramedic pushed his elbow back into its socket violently. He just continued to stare at John, unwavered, swaying mildly as he was jolted around by paramedics and surgeons.

"I know who you are, Captain Watson". The sneering again.

"Sebastian: Marine. It's a pleasure" He said, grinning broadly as he stretched the healthy- but filthy arm across the other injured arm to John's bed. John took it sheepishly.

"I'm the other survivor…lucky us." He mused, beaming from ear to ear. "We should get, close?"

"What are you playing at?" John muttered through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

"Our boyfriends are acquainted." Sebastian said casually, dropping his hand back onto the bed. "Sherlock would be disappointed if he knew you'd forgotten my name." The tone was far too familiar. And the _name_. The young marine was right; Sherlock would be disappointed. He racked his brains but couldn't place the _name_. John stared at him, trying desperately to remember. But his brain was still fuzzy from the blow. What was that damned _name_?

"Oh, I'm sorry" Sebastian said, mockingly-throwing a look around the room "Didn't want all your little friends here to know you're bent as fuck?"

John turned away again, and tried desperately to reflect the words from him and not let them sink in fully.

Sebastian roared with laughter and then added "Oh wait! They're all _dead_!"

Without a second thought now; John leapt from his bed and thrust his good arm into Sebastian's neck. Faces inches apart- Sebastian gripped John's shoulder with his huge, muscular hand and pressed his fingers into the raw flesh, fresh blood seeping through the already drenched bandage, and the grit from Sebastian's fingernails digging into the tender flesh forcefully.

The vicious burn sent searing into the muscle of his left shoulder and flowing through his arm and consequently his broken ribcage-forced John to fall from the bed and land, crashing into the floor in agony. The pounding in his ears now drowning out Sebastian's laughter- he heard nothing but his own blood pumping in his temples.

Before John could pull himself to his feet he was being thrust into a fresh hospital bed and wheeled round the corner.

"Jim sends his love!" Sebastian sung after him.

_Moran_, John muttered. _That_ was the name. Moriarty's sniper. But it was too late now- he had disappeared into another room.

The building was deserted when Mycroft finally arrived- well into the afternoon. He felt bad leaving Greg alone, but the enquiries were important. Moreover- Greg was fast asleep. He was tired out. Mycroft smiled, but then retracted it instantly. It was wrong to smile. He did not struggle with his emotions the way Sherlock did, and whilst neither Greg nor Sherlock could be happy right now, Mycroft found it easy to be both happy and sad simultaneously. Greg's theory had always been that he didn't have the same depth of emotion as Sherlock did, making his easier to control. That said, Sherlock hadn't always been so temperamental. Always more eccentric- but had a hold over his head as well as his body. Now, it seemed he had lost his hard-trained control over _both_. Not that it was a bad thing, watching John and Sherlock change one another was deeply _fascinating _and he was a little jealous that he and Lestrade were still so far apart in emotion.

The office was still open, however, and Mycroft made his way straight into the reprographic room. He placed the letter into the fax machine and tapped out the number that was all too familiar too him.

Not long to wait now.

In twelve hours they would receive more news. News that would turn everything around, or crush Sherlock: forever.

Though Mycroft had originally planned to wait it out at the office- he thought it best to go and see Sherlock to prepare him, and look after him.

Sherlock's past made Mycroft more than a little anxious of how he would take the news.

The walk to Baker Street was bitter cold and the wind nipped at the end of Mycroft's angular nose. A light rain drizzled down on him, and dammit. He'd forgotten his umbrella. He picked up his pace in order to get out of the cold and wet as soon as possible, and found himself jogging into the biting wind, and when he finally reached Baker Street, pressing himself to the door and ringing the buzzer repeatedly.

There was no reply.

Thinking that maybe Sherlock was asleep, Mycroft rung Mrs. Hudson's buzzer too, just in case.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. She was as gloomy and miserable as the rest of them. She said nothing: just pushed the door all the way back and walked back into her apartment. Quickly Mycroft deduced, judging by the state of her shoes-_wet on both top and bottom, so must have been out during the rain which started about 40 minutes ago- _she had left the house for some reason. But could not have gone far- _her clothes were only damp on the shoulders and knees, indicating a short walk, and not particularly fast- as her thighs would then also be wet. Moreover the rain hadn't reached through to her socks yet- _probably the corner shop. He opened the door to 221B easily, and saw the milk on the counter. Untouched. She had just left it. Sherlock didn't answer her knocks- probably.

An odd feeling accumulated in the base of Mycroft's stomach- as if his body knew something his head did not yet know.

Sherlock's eyes were open, but unmoving. He was sat up against a wall, head dropped slightly forward. A belt was still tightly fastened around his arm, which was dotted in red finger prints and a bloodied needle lay on the floor beside him. His pallor was alarming, and his bone structure was now so clearly visible looked skeletal, and frankly, terrifying. Mycroft was frozen, just for a second. Trapped in shock by the unearthly, disturbing beauty his younger brother possessed.

He regained his movement suddenly and violently. He tugged the belt from Sherlock's arm and the needle mark spurted a fresh brighter red blood as the trapped blood flowed into his wrist and hand.

In one swift motion Mycroft lifted Sherlock over his shoulder and threw him onto the couch- panicked.

"Mrs. Hudson- ambulance!" Mycroft belted down the stairs as he paced the length of the sofa on which he'd thrown Sherlock.

Then, dropping to his knees, he gripped the collar of Sherlock's open shirt and buried his head into the deadly still detective's cold chest.

"More bad news." He muttered, as all energy drained from him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Dismissal

There were rumours circulating the hospital tent long before John had been given the official news. He'd tried his best not to listen; he didn't want to give himself false hope. Also, going home now would mean he'd have to come back again in order to finish his service. And the thought of leaving Sherlock _again _was just too much.

Not that he'd been too upset about it this time. It wasn't his fault; he just didn't feel the same way John did. His look was blank, not shocked…just calm. Both men were desensitized to an extent- whilst John could simply shrug off the horror of the mangled bodies he dealt with in Afghanistan- and had even learnt to quite enjoy it- Sherlock could not be alarmed by the most gruesome murder, or indeed, anything that John could call to mind. And he'd seen enough horror to end a 'normal' person's grasp on sanity. He wasn't even surprised when they'd heard of Mycroft's engagement; he smiled, mildly, though only Lestrade was fooled by it. One could argue Sherlock never had had a grasp on sanity. But John knew that, on occasion, he could be hurt. He could be loving, and he certainly _could _be romantic.

But not this time. John's leaving hadn't stirred the slightest emotion from within him. John knew he'd get bored eventually. But he was going to _war._ Any reaction would have been better than the blank look of boredom, or maybe bemusement. As John's mind wandered he began to feel guilt form for how he'd treated Moran. The thought of empathising with such a terrible man sent a wave of nausea through his painfully empty stomach. Being with Moriarty, _loving _Moriarty, must be hell. It made John's complaints of Sherlock's demeanour look pitiful. And he was so young- the Marine.

Wait.

Marine?

John laughed. Out loud. Why had he believed that? And why had Moran lied to him? To test how well his brain was functioning? To hide his rank? John felt a little sorry for him again. Had the great assassin been _embarrassed? _True- John's rank was impressive, but not unachievable for someone with the level of talent and experience – thought not official- Moran had.

The shoulder had begun to heal, but the pinkish flesh left was more unattractive than the original wound. His ribs hadn't completely set yet- his little tiff with Moran had pretty much brought his bones back to their broken state- much to the dismay of the doctors and nurses who were already more than nervous about treating the senior doctor, and essentially: their boss. His leg ached dully and he knew the limp must be back. Great. More therapy. That was just what he wanted.

"Captain."

A quiet voice at the side of the bed said, his hand held to a hesitant salute and knees twitching nervously. Derek was the youngest doctor- he was short and thin, with mousy brown hair sweeping a little lower across his brow than technically permitted. That boy's hair grew so fast he needed it cut twice as often as all the other soldiers, but recent events had cause the normal procedures to be scrapped.

Derek was staring at John, he'd clearly been there for a while- but John hadn't acknowledged him.

"Sorry, Lieutenant-"John tried to raise his hand to mirror the salute, but failed and dropped it again. "Go ahead."

"The Colonel wants to see you." Derek said, solemnly, his eyes flicking to and fro on John's various wounds. He tried not to stare at a particular place for too long, but his shock was clear from his face.

"The Colonel's here?"

"Yes, Captain, he was on… he was with you when…" Derek's voice trailed off, as if it would offend John to speak of the incident that had put him in this state.

"No, the only other survivor was that boy- y'know tall, blonde…?" John muttered, the pieces slowly falling into place

"Yes." Derek said firmly, nodding at John sceptically. "I'll take you to him."

It didn't seem right, Moran looked barely twenty, and certainly not old enough to have moved through the ranks that quickly. Why had he hidden that? Moran was _definitely_ the type who liked to boast. John was too exhausted to give it any further thought but made a mental note to bring it up with Mycroft. If he ever got back.

John heaved himself into the wheelchair parked next to the bed. The seat creaked as he lowered him whole weight onto it, dipping in the centre and straining his newly-recovered spine. He lifted his leg onto the footrest- the stress numbed the joints and he was unable to move it without manual assistance. He dug his fingernails into the flaking armrests, trying to hold up a little of his weight and shift it from his delicate backbone. Every way in which he positioned himself ached tremendously, giving up the hope of comfort- he bit the insides of his cheeks and silently nodded to Derek.

John could tell Derek was struggling a little under his weight, and the age and bad condition of the chair wasn't helping. The floor was by no means even and every bump Derek pushed him over sent surges of pain up John's spine and forced all his muscles to contract and cramp.

Fortunately, the Colonel was relatively close by, and John only had to pass very few occupied beds. He was massively relieved- even in this injured state, John was still extremely proud, and wouldn't want anybody to see him this way. Not that they could anyway. His leg throbbed as he recalled Moran's cruel but truthful statement: they're all dead.

Moran seemed overjoyed to see him- emerging from behind the desk on which he was leaning with two other officers: The Major and Lieutenant-Colonel. Initially it seemed odd that they all be here, but given Moran's arm was still in a sling, and the unattractive limp he walked with- he needed all the help he could get.

"Ah, John." Sebastian smiled heartily as he staggered across the floor to great John with a salute. "Thank you, Derek, that'll be all." His face was cold and stern as he addressed Derek. John could not imagine that Derek was capable of offending anyone, so assumed that Moran was this way with anyone other than John. And probably Moriarty.

He turned back to hitch his way to the desk where the other two still stood engrossed in the maps and sheets strewn across a large oak desk. It seemed ridiculous to take such a relic this far; it deserved a place in a stately home- and not dry and dirty Kabul.

Moran perched himself on the corner of the desk, quite a distance away from where Derek had parked John, shyly smiling, as if amused.

"Captain, don't sit there, come and join us."

John ground his teeth together-the same uncontrollable anger that had drowned him in their initial meeting rising in his chest once again. He swallowed hard, not letting it rise any further.

"Oh, Watson, your little _face_." He jeered, and snapped his head toward the Major, shouting: "Thompson- wheel over the captain."

Without so much as an acknowledgment, Thompson pushed himself up from his stooped position and headed toward John. His head was bowed, menacingly, and the bald patches on the top of his head- not usually visible due to his great height- now fully apparent. He had a grey moustache, and his chest filled the uniform to the point of almost bursting. He was old- much older than Moran- but upright and proper. The heir of importance he carried was overshadowed by Moran's arrogance- yes- but was nevertheless extremely intimidating when he was charging toward you with such bottled up frustration. Swiftly he stepped behind the wheelchair and pushed it quickly toward Moran, who caught the footrest with his left foot- jerking the seat painfully. John winced- much to the Colonel's amusement- who simply laughed and dismissed the Major with a nod.

"Now John- we're struggling to look after you here, with your… condition" He looked John up and down, his eyes lingering on every injury- every broken bone.

"We simply can't keep you here- Captain- you understand that?" The Major butted in- both men behind the desk had looked up from the plans they were poring over and leant on their elbows studying John. John nodded gravely.

"So you'll transfer me to another hospital?" John asked, quietly.

"No." Moran stated firmly and handed John a slip of paper. "We're sending you home."

John stared at the slip- and then back at the Colonel- and then back at the slip again.

"What?" He questioned, confused- he'd heard the rumours- yes- but hadn't let himself believe them

"You're going home, Watson!" Moran shouted, ecstatically- though John knew he was mocking him. "Most of the boys get pretty excited right about now…?"

"No, thank you, I mean, that's great it's just, I'm, y'know." John spluttered, trying to get the words to leave his dry throat

"What is it, Captain?"

The third man- the Lieutenant-Colonel was much shorter than the other two- but also much broader and athletic. His face, however, was rounded and friendly- especially by comparison to the sharp bone structure the other two men possessed.

"I've only served seven months. I still have 6 months to go." He said. He screwed up his face and he could feel the stitches at the back of his head pull, forcing him to drop it again. His head rolled forward onto his chest.

"You'll have to come back…when you've recovered. Sorry Captain." Thompson tried to look reassuring and gave John a slap on the back.

John yelped.

"See you're so breakable" Moran whined. "Take him away- I'm bored now."

Derek re-emerged as quickly as he'd gone, and wheeled John away again without so much as looking at his seniors.

That wasn't Moran talking. It was Moriarty. He'd trained him well.

The hospital floor was clean.

Intimidatingly clean- Greg thought. True- his line of work wasn't the _cleanest _so he didn't really have a strong basis of comparison, but this was just unnatural. It was cleaner than Mycroft's flat; he had a fleet of ten cleaners who came twice weekly, unless called them up for extra times or cancelled when they needed the place empty.

Maybe sitting in this hospital waiting room was taking its toll on him; he was examining the floor. For the first two weeks he'd tried to distract himself by deducing as much as he could of those around him: in Sherlock's honour. He'd abandoned this on perhaps his twentieth visit. As much as he hated to admit it; he just didn't have that same Holmesian spark. The DI was saddened by Sherlock's relapse, but it was mainly for Mycroft's benefit that he was here. As selfish as it was, he wished Sherlock's condition would improve rapidly so his 'home' life could return to normal.

Sherlock _had_ been making rapid progress since initially waking up nearly a week after the overdose- just three days later he'd begun to eat, and a day after that they were able to halve the dosage in his drip, the day after that he began talking again- but all the doctors and psychiatrists were waiting for one key sign that would indicate his advancement in the treatment: that he get out of bed.

Sherlock acted so calm and collected around John, that Lestrade was sure Sherlock wouldn't want his army doctor knowing of this incident unless it were absolutely necessary. But the six months left on John's service should give him ample time to recover. They had since heard that John had survived- not that Sherlock knew this yet- both he and Mycroft had been firmly instructed to not speak to Sherlock about his boyfriend. The psychiatrists said it would damage his recovery. Lestrade knew that if Sherlock were told John was still alive he would jump out of bed, and abandon the treatment in preparation for his return. This probably wouldn't help anyone in the long run, so Greg happily obliged.

The echoes of footsteps in the hall were clearly Mycroft's. His expensive shoes were easy enough to distinguish from the soft slippers of the hospital staff, even if Lestrade hadn't been sat here, listening, so many times before. The footsteps were closer together though- he was maybe a little too proud that he had picked up on that- which meant Mycroft was moving quickly…possibly running. He stood up; ready to receive the news, be it good or bad. When the tall figure appeared around the corner, Mycroft stood taller than he ever had in the last month, his chest puffed out, and those beautiful blue eyes glistening like they hadn't in so long. His smile was so broad it was almost a little scary- Greg hadn't realised that his solemn politician was capable of so wide a smile. Without slowing down, he pulled Greg in for a hard embrace, taking all the air in his lungs. He pushed him away by the shoulders and responded to Lestrade's questioning look with a firm nod.

Lestrade made out a dark lock at the corner of the corridor and side-stepped out of Mycroft's strong grip to catch a glimpse of Sherlock standing there-in his hospital gown-leaning against the wall. His body was slumped, spine protruding and jammed into the cold white walls to offer his frail frame a little support. The bluish hue of his visible skin was all that prevented his skin from blending in completely with its washed-out surroundings.

"Come on out, Sherlock" Mycroft called, his voice croaky from lack of practice- he had hardly spoken save the one-sided conversations he held with Sherlock daily.

Much strain apparent on his face, Sherlock pushed himself up from his position, and padded slowly across the icy tiles. He winced at the cold under his bare feet, but the same mischievous grin Sherlock so often wore could be made out, despite the deep bow of his neck and long, dark curtain of hair concealing most of his face.

"Good morning, Sherlock" Lestrade said, tilting his head to catch another view of that contagious smile "Good to see you up."

Sherlock nodded once, lifting a skeletal hand to wipe the longest hairs from his brow.

"Yes." Sherlock said-his voice shakier than his brother's. "Lestrade, I'm ready for a case." Sherlock announced with an absurd confidence. He was hardly able to walk, but his eyes were flooded with determination; that _spark_; and what can only be described as hunger.

There was no way either Mycroft or Lestrade was going to let him on another case any time soon, and the chuckle that erupted from both the DI and politicians mouths confirmed this.

Mycroft took a few steps toward Sherlock, until they were face to face.

"Of course you will." He said dismissively, in a tone that amongst any other siblings would be condescending and rude.

"But first." Mycroft inhaled deeply.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes" A shrill voice rang through the empty corridors: echoing piercingly.

Sherlock whipped his head around the face the plump nurse bustling towards them, piles of paperwork spilling over her short, fat arms. She pulled a piece from the very middle of the pile and thrust it toward Sherlock, her white, chubby fingers prodding his ribcage. Sherlock stumbled backward a little, but Lestrade stretched out his hand to subtly catch him, and Sherlock sent him a quick thankful smile.

"Your dismissal" The nurse said, already turning around and waddling back in the other direction.

"Fill it out and we'll have you out by the end of the week."

Sherlock beamed again brilliantly, and turning to Mycroft said- in a voice much stronger and self-assured:

"You were saying, brother?"

"Ah, yes. We have some news." Mycroft said, gravely.

Maybe it was a little cruel to let Sherlock suffer this way, but he had to pay for the hell he'd put them both through. Not that a dismissal meant he was off the hook, anyway, he'd still have weeks of rehab to go. But as Mycroft announced that there was "News", his face fell. Throughout these past seven months news had always meant _bad news. _Oh, what a surprise he was about to get.

John looked at the stuffed backpack lying on his bed. He should feel happy to go home, even if he did have to come back. Seeing Sherlock would make everything worthwhile, he knew it, but there was an odd niggling feeling that things wouldn't be the same when he got back that he couldn't shake. He'd been given a new wheelchair, a little more comfortable, but he still ached unvaryingly across his body, save his soldier- which stung a little more, and half of his body was still completely immobile. He hated when Sherlock had to be careful with him- being the weak one.

It had only been a few days since he'd been handed the dismissal, and he'd only been lying in the bed, frequent progress checks, but no one left to visit him. News probably hadn't reached home yet. They were getting him out as soon as possible.

The bustle around him was isolating. He was stuck- sat there opposite the bed. He could not move himself, the ruptures in his core preventing him from using his arms fully, save for the odd salute. He wished now more than ever that he hadn't thrown himself onto Moran. In his final check he'd been told that the ribs were set off now, and even once healed, he still wouldn't have his full strength back. That wasn't all that had changed. His mind was irreparably damaged. He'd dealt with his first time in Afghanistan well. Well, reasonably well. His limp was now consistent, and whereas previously onset when he missed the war, he was now in the middle of it- and completely unable to move his leg.

Thompson appeared in front of him. John had drifted off again, and not noticed the blur of voices were now directed at him. John clenched his jaw and forced himself to salute.

"Good Lord John, don't worry about that now." The Major tutted, swinging John's bag onto his shoulder and grabbing the wheelchair handles.

"Ready to go?" He asked, already pushing John past the other beds, before receiving John's affirmative nod. A few others were going home today, so he was not the only one getting on the tiny plane. John was now used to the terrible condition the jets were in, and was much too tired to think about the massive risk taking this plane rather than the much larger airbus that would pick up the majority of the soldiers six months from now.

That didn't matter now. He was going home, and Sherlock would be there, waiting.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6- Homecoming

You don't forget the crack of a skull splitting open to the brute force of a bullet. Or a pavement.

It's the sound that's woken John, again. Helena's mangled face stares up at his, the way it has every night since the accident. The ache in his leg kicks up again, and stings bitterly where her head lay. The faces of soldiers with bullets in their heads gaze blankly at him, a way they never had before. The faces didn't usually haunt him, the way Helena told him they did her. Now that he understood the pain-the horrible numbing pain-of feeling the questioning eyes of those you let die locking with yours he no longer felt anger at her death. Rather, jealousy that he hadn't been granted the same luxury. Helena had a family, a beautiful family. He'd seen the pictures. He had no family, and likely, never would. Not that he would do anything to change that: he loved Sherlock, naturally, and no matter how much his mind contradicted itself and tried to tell him otherwise, Sherlock loved him too. He had been sad, in those days in the hospital his anger at his affliction had caused him to doubt it, but now with a clearer mind, he was sure that Sherlock had displayed emotion. Even if they could never have children, Sherlock was the closest he'd ever get.

John's mind kept wandering back to Sherlock. And the fall. Every time his nightmares drifted back to Helena's face, the image merged with the memory of Sherlock lying on the pavement outside St. Bart's. That was one memory they never discussed. Since formally becoming a couple- Sherlock had insisted they sign an official document with Mycroft as chaperone- he had become brutally honest with John, even more so than he was when they were just flatmates, and John in return was now as honest as he could be. But, the fall was one thing they never, ever mentioned or alluded to. It was painful, John thought probably more for him- knowing Sherlock it had likely just been a fun trick for him. But Sherlock, as lacking in that department as he was himself, was very careful around John's emotions, which John appreciated and loved.

John usually was the injured one in the relationship; nonetheless, he much preferred to be looking after Sherlock. He hoped Sherlock had heard of the accident and had time to process it; John couldn't deal with Sherlock's temper when he felt this way himself. A cruel, awful part of him hoped Sherlock was feeling weaker without him- someone to remind him to eat, sleep and take breaks from cases. Then he could feed him up again, the way he had when they'd moved in together, and look after him whilst he busied himself over cases. He loved tending to the detective, and being available at his beck and call. But the wheelchair made this difficult. He wouldn't be able to leave 221B easily, to head down to Speedy's or the supermarket. And this was even if the hospital let him stay at home.

He exhaled slowly, peering out of the window, now fully wakened from his nightmare. The cloud cover made it impossible to see the ground, and he couldn't estimate where they were. He desperately wanted to know how long it was until he'd see Sherlock again. Glowing, and grinning the way he did when John complimented him, or did something he approved of. So, reluctantly, he held up his hand and waved at the Steward standing in the galley. When no response came, John sat up in his seat and waved at him again. He turned and grinned at him, shimmying past the older man standing facing him. He wasn't short- only a few inches taller than John, but his wide girth made him look somewhat like a teddy- bear. His face was warm, and welcoming, and frankly unexpected from a man chauffeuring injured soldiers to and from a war zone.

"Hello, Doctor, how can I be of assistance to yourself today?" He said with practised precision.

"How long till we land?" John asked quickly. Sure, the boy looked nice, but he was too tired and far too depressed to make friends with anyone.

"Um, I'm not sure. I'll go ask the pilots." He said, quietened by John's brashness.

He turned quickly and waddled back up the aisle, following the grey-haired man into the flight deck. John took the time to look out of the window again, though the ground was still not visible. The clouds looked like mountains of cotton wool from above; the mounds bandaged the bright blue of the sky, and cradled the fierce, glaring sun.

"Only about two hours now, Doctor. Captain. Doctor. Captain Doctor, I mean." An unfamiliar stutter came from beside him. John whipped his head around and stared into the face of the little red-faced, red-haired man that stood next to him. A large hat was balanced on his head, the gaps where his head didn't quite reach the rim of his hat where clearly visible from John's seated position. The Captain was short, very short. He was shorter than the steward, and even than John. He blushed brilliantly with every word he spoke. John smiled at him reassuringly, concerned that his tone earlier had led the Steward to alert the Captain to John's temperament.

"Thank you, very much" John spoke softly, grinning as the blush faded from the Captain's face. With the absence of the bright red hue, John could admire his piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones that reminded him ever so slightly of Sherlock. But these days, anything would. The Captain smiled weakly, nodding and turned back to return to the flight deck. As he opened the door, John could see the older man must be the first officer, and was currently piloting the plane. The sound of the heavy door opening caused the pilot to turn, and smiled languidly at the Captain. Just before the door swung closed again, John saw the First Officer press a kiss onto the Captain's smiling mouth. John laughed lightly, knowing the men thought he hadn't seen, and shut his eyes again, trying to catch an hour's sleep before they landed.

The bag Lestrade had prepared for Sherlock still lay untouched at the end of his bed. He was still in the pyjamas the hospital had replaced his robe with two days ago, but his long coat was covering them, and his scarf disguised the telling loose collar. Mycroft picked up the bag and swung it over his shoulder where it landed on top of the bag the nurse had filled with spare bags for Sherlock's drip and his various medications. Sherlock rarely took them, so Mycroft had to ask for powdered and liquid forms so that he could sneak them into Sherlock's stomach in various ways, not that he often succeeded in tricking him. Lestrade stood at the reception desk of the ward, chatting with the nurses who had taken to him a little more than Mycroft was comfortable with, a folded wheelchair tucked under one arm, and Sherlock's drip under the other. Awkwardly, he leant forward to sign some documents, the wheelchair falling from his grip onto the floor. Masses of paperwork had to be signed to let Sherlock come home; both Mycroft and Lestrade were now responsible for administering Sherlock's medication and not allowing Sherlock to be alone. Especially not with the meds.

Mycroft hadn't yet told his brother that John was returning home today. He'd decided it would be best to pick the battered soldier up himself after returning Sherlock home with Lestrade to 221B. Mycroft grabbed the detective's tiny elbow with more force than could have been comfortable for him, and pulled him towards where the young blonde nurse was dangerously close to his fiancée.

"Ready to go, Darling?" Mycroft said, in a tone so sickly sweet that Greg winced slightly before latching onto Mycroft's other arm. Mycroft leant down and pushed his parted lips roughly onto Greg's. Mycroft was a prude, and usually wouldn't even hold hands in public, but this young lady had to be taught a lesson in not touching the property of others. Sherlock laughed nervously as Mycroft pulled them both out of the glass doors, Lestrade tripping as he recovered from the heat of his soon-to-be-husband's violation.

They sat in awkward silence all the way to Baker Street. Mycroft occasionally craned his neck around the back of his seat to brief Lestrade in exactly how to tend to Sherlock whilst Mycroft was "working". Of course, this would all have been a lot easier had John not been chair-bound by the accident. John and Sherlock's relationship had initially been of ease to Mycroft's mind; somebody professionally qualified could now cater to his problematic younger brother. But with John's injuries- and from what he'd heard they were serious- it was more likely that in the few months leading up to his wedding, he and Greg would be looking after both of them.

The car slid into a spot opposite 221B, and Greg pushed open the house-side door. He lugged the hospital equipment up to the door and leant it against the wrought iron fences lining the pavement. Sherlock attempted to follow, but Mycroft could tell from the pain on his face that he was still not strong enough to walk himself. Sighing in agitation he pushed open his own door and held out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced up at him,

"Thank you, brother." He muttered, embarrassed by his afflictions. Lestrade returned to the car and pulled Sherlock's unbandaged arm over his shoulder.

"It's okay Mycroft" Lestrade said, reading his fiancées expression, as he so often did. "I'll take him from here; you head off to the office."

"Thank you, sweetie" Mycroft said hurriedly, swiftly pressing a kiss to Lestrade's rough cheek and sliding into the back seat of his Bentley. The driver drove off instantly, knowing the predetermined destination. Before heading off to the air field, however, the car drove in the direction of the office. Mycroft smiled. His drivers were good. Even in his slowed wit, Sherlock would notice if Mycroft had suddenly driven into the opposite direction. Turning around, the politician noticed that Sherlock was already upstairs, looking out of the window, as he so often had, watching Mycroft's car drive away. It wasn't long now until Greg would warn him that John was on his way home. He pondered whether or not it was cruel to let him know so late, but dismissed the thought as the deep emotional connections became too complex and confusing.

"What!?" Sherlock bellowed. "Mycroft is always this way, but you!? I thought you understood emotion! Relationships! Fucking _Romance_, Lestrade!" He yelled at Greg's stomach, the wheelchair giving Greg a vertical advantage.

"Sherlock, I can't convince him of anything any better than you can!" Lestrade countered, heat rushing to his face in response to Sherlock's sudden fire. He'd been so calm lately! It made this outburst even more of a shock. Sherlock began wheeling around the apartment frantically, pushing his medication into drawers, and looking down, frantically began to pull at the hospital pyjamas the absence of his coat had now revealed. Lestrade exhaled heavily.

"Sherlock, it's no good, he'll be on his way already." He said quietly, watching Sherlock's hysteria, hopelessly. Sherlock, dropping his attenuated fingers from the loose grey they were contorting, busied himself once again, turning up every corner he could reach in search of incriminating evidence of his weakness.

"Please, you're on a bloody drip! He's gunna know!" Lestrade shouted after Sherlock who'd managed to wheel himself to the bedroom door. Sherlock turned slowly and stared at him with wet eyes. He seemed terrified, so unbelievably scared that John would know of his relapse; his inability to cope _emotionally_.

"Look, I'll help you clean the place up, but you can't stop him finding out." Lestrade sighed sympathetically walking across to where Sherlock sat, head in his hands. He stretched out a hand, and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder, he winced beneath it but eventually relaxed. "He's not well, Sherlock." Sherlock's head snapped up to Greg's, sneering condescendingly:

"Yes, Inspector, thank you, I hadn't deduced as much." Greg laughed, lightly, pleased that the younger man was returning to his natural demeanour. "How badly is he injured?" Sherlock said, his glare softening.

"There was a suicide attack, in Kabul- only two survivors." Greg whispered, kneeling down, his hand still on Sherlock's wing-like protruding shoulder blade. "He's in a wheelchair, like you. But the main injuries are his ribcage and shoulder."

"Limp's back." Sherlock stated, gazing blankly out of the window.

"Yes." Greg confirmed. "Go lightly on him, it's unlikely it'll ever go away now."

"We'll see about that." Sherlock countered, quickly, arrogantly aware that if anyone could get rid of that limp again: it was him. "That was the news wasn't it- what Mycroft was going to tell me in the hospital." Greg nodded in response, frustrated that they hadn't just told him then. Sherlock looked up at Lestrade, a smile forming across his dry lips. "I don't forgive you- but for now, let's get me hooked up, so I at least look a little healthier when John arrives." Greg grinned,

"Good to hear you talk about him again, Sherlock. Let's plug you in" He replied, smiling at the eccentric seated so vulnerably below him. What a delicious paradox it was.

The politician was the only man standing on the air field when John landed. He'd desperately hoped that Sherlock would be there, not only so he could show off his own boyfriend to the pilots, but as pathetic as it was he wanted that romantic moment all the girls around him were getting with their returned soldiers. Mycroft looked up from under his umbrella and smiled at John through the curtain of grey, British rain. John was sat under one of the wings, where the First Officer had graciously placed him after both the Steward and Captain were not strong enough to lift him. The Captain had blushed furiously at the sight of his boyfriend effortlessly lifting a man as strongly built as John was. John couldn't decide if it was out of jealousy or admiration. Mycroft strode through the saturated grass, paying no attention to the splatters of mud spoiling his trousers. Without stopping to say anything, he leant down and gripped the back of John's head, pressing it to his chest. He stood there for a few seconds, holding John tight, before finally releasing him with sigh. He smelt of rain and mud, his hair damp from the drizzle. John didn't return the embrace, though he smiled, encouragingly to show Mycroft the sentiment was appreciated.

"Before you say anything, John, he was very ill. Very, very ill." Mycroft paused after this outburst waiting for John's approval to continue. John remained silent, so Mycroft continued:

"First he went silent, didn't speak for the first few months. Then, eventually he got out of bed. When he finally improved enough to look after himself, we got word of the attack, and it went downhill again."

John stared silently at Mycroft trying to understand the words he said so easily. No one else had spoken to freely of the attack and he deeply appreciated Mycroft's bluntness. Yet, somehow, he couldn't understand what he was trying to tell him.

"I pulled some strings to find out if you were one of the survivors but he just assumed that you were… Well, dead." Mycroft said, with a refreshing confidence- the only man John could rely on right now for truth. John smiled internally at the irony of it.

"He overdosed and was hospitalised. I told him you're alive but Greg is at 221B telling him you're coming home now." Mycroft sighed once the sentence was finished- glad to have been relieved of his burden. A silence extended between them, as John absorbed all Mycroft had said. He stared at the grass that was beginning to form a crust on Mycroft's expensive shoes as the rain eased off.

"Mycroft, I…" John stuttered. There was so much he wanted to say, he wanted so badly to make a scene, to shout and scream, and punch Mycroft in the chest for scheming and playing him and Sherlock so superbly. But he was tired. So tired. His body felt hollow with the little relief the painkillers were giving him, and his mind: numb. Finally he parted his lips enough to squeak out the only response he could manage.

"Take me home, please."


End file.
